


Sanctuary Among Thieves

by FrickinAngel



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Amulet of Articulation, Amulets, F/M, Light Angst, Loss, Love, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, The Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Thieves Guild, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-05-14 18:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5754040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrickinAngel/pseuds/FrickinAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two and a half months after Anya Dragonslayer killed Mercer Frey in Irkngthand with Brynjolf and Karliah, she is still waking up from nightmares of the ordeal and missing Mercer.  No one knows that they were in love and she can't tell anyone because no one would understand, after the horrible things he did to the Guild.  Brynjolf comes to her and tells her that a violent murder of one of the Dark Brotherhood Members suspiciously appears to have been committed by Mercer Frey.  Note as of 1/22/16 I have edited the first chapter--I noticed that I had a couple of messy tense changes.  Fixed now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Suspicious Death

First of Frostfall

Anya took one last look at Mercer where he lay by her feet, arms akimbo, legs twisted, blood oozing from the gash in his Thieves Guild armor, right over the heart. A wound Anya's ebony bow, Soul Chaser, had torn in his chest, ending his life after the desperate chase through Irkngthand. 

His handsome face looked untroubled, peaceful, as if he had simply chosen to lie down and rest in the cavern he had literally brought down around them in pieces after pillaging the stone Eyes of the Falmer from the giant statue of a snow elf that towered over them, even now. If she hadn't known better, she would've assumed he'd be opening his green eyes momentarily in one of his classic, leering winks. "What are you looking at, sweetheart? Had you fooled for a minute there, didn't I?"

Another explosion rocked the ground beneath her feet, knocking her momentarily off balance and making her grasp the Skeleton key more tightly. "Hurry, Lass!" Brynjolf called, his normally deep voice high and taut with fear. Anya glanced up to see he and Karliah scrambling up the slick boulders twenty feet above towards Bronze Water Cave, their boots knocking small showers of pebbles loose to tumble down into the ever-rising waters. Escape. . .

Anya looked back down at Mercer, her eyes prickling. "Damnit, Frey. . . Why couldn't you have just been happy with being the Thief Lord? We could've been set for life, you ass. But, you had to go and piss off Nocturnal, too?" She reached down, her vision swimming with unshed tears, and gently pulled the amulet from around his neck, hoping Brynjolf and Karliah hadn't seen. "I miss you already, you mad bastard. . ."

Cold water was just beginning to lick at the toes of her boots and eddy around Mercer's head, soaking his wavy brown hair. Anya stuffed the amulet into a pocket on the front of her leather armor, tucked the key carefully into her pack and began to climb after her friends, sick at the thought of leaving him here, alone in the water, never to feel his arms around her again. 

Another boom and huge rocks crashed all around, deafening her. She took one last look at him, wishing it hadn't had to end like this as she struggled to find a handhold and follow her friends to safety. 

Fifteenth day of Morningstar

It had been two and a half months since the disaster at Irkngthand now, and still, Anya woke in the middle of each night, drenched in sweat, visions of Falmer Nightstalkers and giant frost spiders crowding around her. But the vision that haunted her day and night was that of her ebony arrow flying across the cavern to pierce Mercer's armor, seeing his stricken look at her as he sank to the feet of the bronze Snow Elf statue, the life knocked out of him, over and over again in slow motion. Soul Chaser hadn't collected his soul, she knew, but that didn't mean anything. 

Mercer was gone and not only was there nothing she could do about it, there was no one she could tell how much it still hurt her, deep inside. 

No one would understand. 

The way people talked these days around the Guild, you'd think they all knew from square one that he was stealing them as blind as the statue of the Snow Elf. They all talk led like they didn’t remember how funny he could be, or how his quirky grin looked or his green eyes would sparkle and dance as he told a new joke. No one seemed to recall that he would sometimes play them old ballads on the lute that she now kept on the high shelf of her closet in her quarters these days. 

Sometimes she took it down and plucked at the strings, hoping to conjure the feeling of Mercer beside her, holding it and smiling as he crooned Jornibret's Last Dance or The Dragonborn in a silly voice. 

Anya wore his amulet under her tunic, next to her skin, every day. She pulled it out now, in the safety of her room, and held it in the palm of her hand. It was hers now, being the Guild master, but it would always feel like his to her. It was unique, as he had been: a three-pointed Amulet of Articulation with three black stones, which helped him to be as persuasive as he always was. Even though he could be acerbic, even cruel at times, his persuasive nature was one of the things she loved about him. "You silver-tongued bastard, Mercer," she murmured as she slipped the amulet back out of sight, simultaneously loving and hating the chill of the metal against her skin. 

Just in time, too, for a soft knock came at her door, startling her. "Yes?" she called. Brynjolf opened the door and peered in at her without stepping over the threshold. "Come in," she told him. 

"Yes, Guild Mistress," he said, averting his eyes as he walked in and stood there, looking awkward. 

"Oh Bryn, stop treating me like someone important," she said with just a little bite to the words. "It's still me, you know."

He shook his head and grinned like the boy he hadn't been for decades now. "I'm sorry, Lass," he said. "It's a little overwhelming for all of us here, you know, having the Dragonborn be our new Guild Master."

Anya found herself blushing. For some reason that term never sat well with her. She grew up on a Breton farm, milking her adoptive parents' cows and collecting the chicken eggs every morning, like so many of Skyrim's children did. She didn't know who her birth parents were, and probably never would, but she knew she didn't feel like the Dragonborn of legend. She still felt like Anya of Frostwald Farm, not Anya Dragonslayer, the name that was bestowed upon her by the Emperor after she went to Sovngarde to slay Alduin, The World Eater. 

It rankled at her the way people treated her wherever she went: bowing to her, wanting to shake her hand and thank her, as if they wouldn't have done the same in her place. Arngeir, the Greybeard Elder on top of High Hrothgar. had told her that most people probably wouldn't have done the same. Most would've run, screaming the other way if told they'd been born with the soul of a dragon. She knew he was probably right, but it still felt awkward and uncomfortable to have people treat her almost as if she were the great God Akatosh or something. It felt blasphemous somehow. 

She sighed at last and glared at poor Brynjolf. "What do you need, Bryn?"

He cleared his throat and took another step toward her, planting his hands on his hips before telling her, "There's been a weird report, Lass." He lowered his voice significantly. "From the Dark Brotherhood."

Anya sat up, a bit more interested. "Have a seat and tell me then." She gestured carelessly at the chair next to the crackling fire. 

He slid into the chair, looking uneasy and worried. "I got a letter from Astrid herself this morning. She said that one of the Brotherhood members was assassinated last week."

"So?" Anya said, watching the glowing coals in the bottom of the fireplace. "One less murderer to trouble Skyrim, as far as I'm concerned." She's never liked the Brotherhood. Always sneaking around and killing people. It's one thing to steal things, but ending people's lives, often simply because of bitter feuds and grudges as the Brotherhood did, well. . . It just seemed like murder to Anya. Plain and simple. Wrong. 

"Well, ordinarily I'd agree with you, Lass. I'm no fan of murder for hire meself, but they found Mercer's shadowmark next to the body."

Anya stood up abruptly, staring at Brynjolf, her heart already thudding her chest. Not many people knew what Mercer's personal shadowmark looked like. "Someone's playing games with us then, Bryn. We all know where Mercer is. At the bottom of Irkngthand Sanctuary, covered in thousands of gallons of cold water." 

Brynjolf looked even more uncomfortable now, not able to meet her eyes. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, staring down between his feet. "That wasn't all they found, Lass," he said in not much more than a hoarse whisper. 

Anya felt her breath catch in her throat. "What is it?" She heard herself asking, as if from the end of a dark tunnel. 

He cleared his throat again. "The Brotherhood member was found with Mercer's sword of Devouring stuck through his heart, along with a note."

Anya shivered convulsively, as if she were the one stuck at the bottom of Irkngthand Sanctuary. As if she would never be warm again. "What did it say?" She heard herself ask. She was shocked by how calm she sounded. She felt anything but calm inside. Her heart was racing with excitement. 

"It said, 'You can't get rid of me that easily,'" Brynjolf told her uncomfortably, his face contorting as he looked at her. "But it can't be true, can it, Lass?"

Anya didn't say anything for a long time, but her mind was racing. "Of course not," she said at last, forcing herself to sit back down and act as if she thought this was all ridiculous nonsense. "It's obvious that someone is having a laugh at the Guild's expense. Someone who has a vendetta against the Brotherhood."

Brynjolf thought about this for a moment, raking the fingers of one hand through his reddish hair before nodding shakily. "I'm sure you're right, Lass. After all, all three of us saw him. . . At the end. . . There's no way he could've survived what came after, even if he. . ."

"Absolutely not," Anya interrupted his train of thought. "Mercer Frey is dead, and good riddance to him."

"Right," Brynjolf said, standing decisively now, wiping his hands on his pants. "I'm sorry to have troubled you with this, Lass. I'm sure you understand why I--"

"Yes, yes," she said, distracted, staring into the fire again. "Leave me be now, Bryn. I'm tired."

"Of course you are, Lass," he agreed. Everyone knew Anya hadn't been the same since Irkngthand. They seemed to think it was the stress of it all: the search for the traitor, the discovery that it was Mercer, the resultant wild chase and. . . The killing of Mercer. 

But only Anya knew that it was a broken heart that had left her exhausted and diminished after Irkngthand. If anyone ever found out that she loved the great traitor of the Thieves Guild. . . Well, she wasn't sure what would happen.


	2. A Dark Visitor

Chapter Two 

27th Day of Morningstar

It had been almost two weeks since Brynjolf told her about the strange Dark Brotherhood killing, and Anya still couldn't stop thinking about it. She had told Bryn it was nonsense, but really, who knew about Mercer's shadowmark aside from her, Bryn and Karliah? The only other had been Gallus, the Guildmaster prior to Mercer, but Mercer had killed him years before. 

Anya knew: you don't just show anyone your shadowmark. Apparently, Astrid hadn't known the mark she'd seen on the body was Mercer's. She had only assumed it when she read the note. Shadowmarks were a very personal business, much more so than a signature. It meant complete trust to let someone see it. 

Each new member of the Guild was given their shadowmark by the current Guildmaster in private when they were inducted. It was your truest identity and could be used as a kind of currency in some situations. If someone shared their shadowmark with you, it was like. . . Well, like honor among thieves, she thought. 

And she was pretty sure it was only herself and the two others who had known Mercer well enough (intimately enough, she thought) to be privy to his shadowmark. A compelling symbol really, it looked a bit like a rough horseshoe that curled outward on each end and had a short, thick line that bisected the very middle. 

They hadn't heard anything else from Astrid on the murder, but she understood that while it hadn't been a particularly important Dark Brotherhood member, just an initiate, the way it had been done and the place the body had been left, arranged so carefully to implicate (or announce?) Mercer's complicity in it. . . Well, it was damned strange. Someone had wanted everyone to believe that Mercer was alive and well.

"Mercer, are you still out there?" she murmured, staring at the guttering flame of the candle burning on the table beside her. She pushed a small pile of scribbled-on parchments aside with the palm of one hand. She'd been taking notes on the murder, trying to make sense of it all. But it didn't add up. 

There just didn't seem to be a way that Mercer could've survived Irkngthand. Hell, Anya herself had barely made it out alive. Brynjolf and Karliah had had to grab her arms and pull her up just as the frigid, rushing water reached the mouth of the cave. 

They'd all been exhausted, soaked and unbelievably sore after nearly a day of chasing Mercer around in those horrid ruins. Mercer had to be even more exhausted, trying to stay one step ahead of them all that time, and then, to take Anya's arrow to the chest. . . Well, there was no way he could have escaped the flooded Sanctuary with an arrow in his chest and made it anywhere to recover even if he had survived Anya's killing shot. 

Despite everything that Mercer had done, she'd have loved to know he was alive out there. She didn't know what had possessed him to act as he had in the first place. Things had been going much better for the Guild. Of course they were going much better, now that she had returned the Skeleton Key to the Twilight Sepulcher and gotten Nocturnal's blessing on the Guild again. But just to know that Mercer was alive out there would lift her spirits. It was horrible, every time she woke up and remembered that he was dead. That she was the one who had ended his life. She remembered stolen afternoons in his Riftweald Manor bedroom, giggling over the fact that no one knew what was going on between them. Giddy, like teenagers. She shook her head, stood up and stretched, deciding to take a little walk around Riften to clear her head. 

Outside on the boardwalk below the town, it was good to hear the sounds of the night: chirping crickets and occasional mournful bird calls. The murky, stagnant water in the canal shone and glittered in the light of both of Skyrim's moons, Secunda and Masser. It lifted her heart to see her adoptive city, resting peacefully under the beautiful stars as she climbed the stairs that lead to the center of town. She stood in the very center of all the outdoor shops and turned around in a slow circle, taking it all in. 

There, in the silvery moonlight, was the Temple of Mara, imposing Mistveil Keep and Honorhall Orphanage. Here and there in the houses interspersed between the other buildings, most lights were out and hearth fires burned down as people headed to bed. As Anya stood there, looking around, she noticed one building that should've been empty, held a very faint light flickering in the little, round window at the peak of the house. 

She stopped and stared at it, her fingers icy cold, her heart hammering. 

Riftweald Manor should not have any lights on. No one should be in the abandoned house. That was Mercer Frey's house. This is no coincidence, she thought and took a step towards it, her right hand on the hilt of her sword already. 

Anya had a key to Mercer's home. She had stolen it from Vald, the mercenary who had guarded Mercer's house for him up until the day she searched it for clues before Irkngthand. She knew she needed to get inside that house and see who had broken in there and what they were doing. It had to have something to do with the Dark Brotherhood murder. 

Anya walked around the back of the house and silently let herself in the back entrance. Thankfully, Mercer had always kept the door hinges well-oiled. She knew how to avoid all of the traps and pitfalls in the house after nearly being killed by a hallway filled with swinging blades, and another filled with poison dart traps. 

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs on the second floor and held her breath, listening carefully for any sounds of movement from the floor above, where she'd seen the light flickering. Nothing. Not even a light now, from what she could tell. If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she might've thought she'd imagined the whole thing. 

Someone was being awfully careful. She whispered the Muffle spell and crept up the stairs, confident that whoever might be up there would never hear her coming. It was always strange, being surrounded by Muffle, because it felt as if you were underwater or in a stoppered glass bottle, because you couldn't even hear the sound of your own breath or the whisper of your clothing. You could hear everything else around you, but it was as if you suddenly didn't exist.

Anya stood outside the door to Mercer's attic room, where the light had come from, wondering if whoever was inside had already escaped. She silently cast a Detect Life spell and a slim, humanoid shape shone through the wooden wall. She wiped her hands on her pants and took a centering breath to calm her mind. Someone was very clearly still inside the room, standing as silently as she was, in the darkness. Someone who, because the outline showed up as red thanks to Detect Life, most probably was not a friend of her or the Guild. 

She prepared a Paralyze spell in one hand and Fireball in her other (in case Paralyze failed, as it sometimes did on more powerful foes) and flung the door open, tossing a candlelight scroll into the room ahead of her, which bathed the entire, small space in warm, flickering yellow light, and illuminated a tall Argonian male, wearing the Shrouded red armor of the Dark Brotherhood. 

He looked up, surprised and angry, just as her Paralyze spell hit him square in the chest, and then he stiffened and fell over backwards into the big wooden table behind him with a thud, immobilized for the next thirty seconds or so. Anya was at his side in an instant, riffling through the pockets of his tight leather armor until she found what she was looking for: a small piece of parchment with a bloody handprint on it. The symbol of the Dark Brotherhood that meant: "We know who you are. We are watching you." 

She had expected to find something of Mercer's in the Argonian's possession, but the Brotherhood weren't thieves, she reflected. They were assassins. He had probably come, hoping to find information on Mercer's whereabouts. Or to find Mercer himself. It would be foolish to hope that Mercer would be hanging around the one place so many people knew he had lived. 

On the other hand, it might be a good hiding place after all, she thought. Who would expect Mercer to come back to his Riften home? If she were trying to hide that she had somehow evaded death, perhaps hiding in plain sight, much like the moths whose wing patterns camouflaged them to look like the tree bark they lived on, was not such a bad idea after all.

She stood up while she still had time and cast about the room in the floating candlelight, looking at the items on the table: a large, yellowed map of Tamriel, spread out and curling at the edges, a few locations circled in ink with Mercer's spidery handwriting beside each circle. She of course had explored Mercer's entire house after the news of the strange Dark Brotherhood murder, but had found nothing at the time that seemed important. 

Looking at the map again now, she thought about the places he had circled, tapping one of them with her forefinger. What had they meant to him? Were they locations he had wanted the Guild to hit? she wondered. She looked closer, absently casting Paralyze on the Argonian again when she heard him begin to stir with a small groan. "I'm sorry, brother," she murmured, because she knew that eventually, she would have to interact with him and find out what he was doing, trespassing on Guild property. 

She stared at each of the circled locations in turn, realizing that she had no idea what any of them were. Had never even heard of them. She had been to so many places in Skyrim; many places that no self-respecting citizen would have any idea about: Skooma dens, Hagraven caves, Necromancer hideouts, thieves' dens, vampire lairs and castles, dragon's aeries . 

But these places, interspersed all over the various holds, were ones she had never heard of before: Shadowmarsh Grove, near Morthal, Hagraven Rest, outside of Dawnstar and Nordmarch, close to Mount Anthor in Winterhold. What had he wanted with all these places? Potential Hideouts?

A low moan from the Argonian at her feet brought her back to the moment. She drew out her daedric dagger, a wickedly cruel blade enchanted with powerful dual stamina and health drain spells, knelt down beside him and placed it at his throat, muttering, "We're going to have a nice little chat until I'm satisfied that it's safe to let you go, friend."

"You're no friend of mine, sister," he managed to grunt out through jaws that were still in lock down from the Paralyze spell. 

"I could've run you through and asked questions later for trespassing on Guild property, Argonian! Now tell me your name and why you're here, or we may have to amend my actions," she snapped, pressing the blade close enough to nick the tender skin of his throat and convey her message at the same time. 

He stiffened, but not from the paralyze spell, and then forced himself to smile. "The name's Veezara," he told her, his voice limbering up as the spell wore off at last. He'd have a headache for hours, she guessed, from the way his head hit the table when he went down. "And as you've probably already figured out, I'm with the Dark Brotherhood."

"Yes," she agreed, still not removing her blade from his neck. He didn't try to move. Wise man, she thought. 

"And I will be missed if I don't make it home, Anya Dragonborn."

She was only mildly surprised that he knew who she was. Being the Dragonborn of legend left you strangely bared to everyone's scrutiny. There were drawings and tiny marble statuettes of her hawked in every town and city around Tamriel since she'd slain the World Eater. She was recognized wherever she went. "Don't worry. You'll make it home to take more unnecessary lives, Veezara," she said. "Now tell me what you were doing, acting like a Guild member and not an assassin."

He sighed, and his scaly eyes closed down to exhausted slits. "If you must know, we were trying to find out if Mercer Frey was really the one who killed our newest initiate a couple of weeks ago. I'm sure you heard--"

"Yes," Anya said, easing the dagger away from his throat and gesturing for him to sit up. "But I don't think you'll have much luck with that. I watched him die at my own hand, only two months ago after he betrayed the Guild."

Veezara shook his head as he gingerly pulled himself to a seated position. Coming out of a Paralyze spell was painful. She didn't envy him that. "There had been whispers about it everywhere, yes. So, it's true then? The great thief is dead?"

She nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Why would someone try to frame him for the murder outside our Falkreath Sanctuary then?" Veezara look as puzzled as Anya felt.

"We can't understand it ourselves," she admitted. "It seems terribly odd, doesn't it?" She felt that she was safe enough with this Argonian, so she sat down opposite him, keeping her dagger at the ready, just in case. 

He pulled his knees up near his chest and wrapped his dark green arms around them. "Which is why we thought it might indeed be possible that Frey had survived your arrow and killed our associate." 

He looked troubled enough after saying it, not meeting her eyes, that Anya asked, "What is it?"

He shook his head again. "Well, the Brotherhood and the Guild, while different in our goals, have always been allies. Why would Mercer want to implicate himself, in the first place? Why not just escape Skyrim altogether and go somewhere no one knows him, knowing that anywhere he goes in Skyrim is a sure death sentence from the Guild and anyone allied with them?"

"I know," Anya said. "It really doesn't add up."

Veezara looked at her for a long moment, clearly pondering something. She let him think, because she was interested to see where this conversation would end up. He opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it, and then rubbed his temples with his eyes closed. When he opened them again, he said, "Perhaps we could work together to solve this. . ."

". . . Mystery?" She volunteered. He nodded and she thought about it for a moment. Perhaps both of the groups together could come up with the answer that they hadn't been able to separately. "Yes," she said at last. "Perhaps it would be a good idea to partner on this."

At this, the Argonian's green face relaxed into a more natural smile. "Thank you, Dragonborn."

"Please don't call me that," she said absently, standing up. "Now, let's go back to the Guild and talk with Brynjolf about this, Veezara."

She held out a hand to pull him up, knowing that he would be stiff from her Paralyze spell for the rest of the evening to some extent. He took her hand with his rather chillier, webbed hand, stood up, and they headed down the two flights of stairs together. 

Moments later, the Thieves Guild. . .

Brynjolf met them at the door to the Ragged Flagon, his brow furrowed with worry. "Where have you been, Lass? There's been another murder!"


	3. Another suspicious murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya and Veezara discover that there has been another murder, again implicating Mercer Frey. However, this one points them to a location none of them have been to before, near Morthal, and yet another mystery.

Thieves Guild. . .

"What happened, Bryn?" Anya asked, just as Brynjolf noticed Veezara standing behind her. "Brynjolf, meet Veezara of the Dark Brotherhood. I just found him going through Mercer's house." 

"Mercer's. . ?" Brynjolf's brow furrowed into a deep frown, his big hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"It's a long story, but Veezara is a friend, Bryn, so you can calm down."

She explained what had happened at Mercer's house, hearing Veezara's slight sigh of embarrassment when she told about knocking him down so easily with her Paralyze spell. She finished by saying, ". . . And so we thought perhaps we could work together to figure this mystery out." She looked at Veezara, who nodded. She'd never been able to read the Argonian face very well, but she was quite sure that Veezara still looked a bit disgruntled. Well, get used to it, she thought. Not many can best Anya Dragonborn, she thought with some pride and then blushed at the thought.

"Perhaps so," Brynjolf agreed, nodding thoughtfully. He eyed Veezara for a long moment, before saying, "But, wait until you hear about the latest murder."

"Tell us," Anya said, sitting down on the edge of a chair and leaning toward him. She gestured for Veezara to join them and he did, sitting astride one of the chairs and resting his heavily muscled green arms on the back lightly. 

"It was one of those college mages from Winterhold, some healer woman. . . I can't recall the name."

Anya was shocked. "Collete Marence, the Restoration Master?"

Brynjolf nodded absently. "Yes, the very one, lass."

"By the Nine," Anya breathed, shaking her head. The woman had certainly been prickly and annoying at times, obsessed with the faulty idea that no one thought Restoration was a valid school of the magics, but she had taught Anya all she knew about healing spells. And those same spells had saved both her and her companions many a time. Hell, she would never have made it through Skuldafn Temple of Sovngarde without many of those spells. "What happened to her, Bryn?" She asked, lacing her fingers together on her knees tensely.

"Apparently, whoever did this to her, cast an Ash Rune spell on her," Brynjolf said. 

Veezara hissed in a shocked breath beside her. "God's blood!"

Brynjolf went on. "She must've suffocated in a hard ash shell where she lay, Lass. It gave the mages a devil of a time even cracking through the damned ash, it was so expertly cast." He looked down at his feet for a moment before going on. There was only the sound of the crackling fire in the over warm room. "Some Mage by the name of Tolfdir found her at dawn, in front of the statue in the courtyard. Her arms were raised up, as if she'd been trying to ward off the spell. . . At least she put up a good fight. I'm sorry, Lass. I know how much you like the college."

Anya shook her head again, thinking how horrible it would be to die, suffocating slowly inside a hardened ash shell. "So, what made them think it was Mercer who killed Collette?"

"That's just it, Anya," he said. "There was a piece of parchment clutched in one of her hands with Mercer's Shadowmark, and a note that only said, 'Shadowmarsh Grove, Morthal, 30th day of Morningstar."

"What in Oblivion is going on, Bryn?" Anya whispered. "Shadowmarsh was one of the places Mercer had circled on the map in his house, right, Veezara?"

Veezara nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed as he hissed, "Yes. . . But there's one thing I wonder about this."

"What is it?" Brynjolf asked, the side of his face lit by dancing orange firelight. 

"Did Frey ever spend time in Solstheim?"

Brynjolf shook his head, looking intently at Veezara, his eyes narrowed. "He was a Breton. So, not that I know of, why?"

Veezara looked from Brynjolf to Anya, who shook her head, no. "He said he didn't like elves, once." Anya told him. She didn't like how narrow-minded that made Mercer sound, and she hadn't liked it much when he had said it. But everyone had their quirks, by Ysmir. 

Veezara nodded again, steepling his fingertips together thoughtfully and looking at them both in turn. "Ash Shell is an Adept-level spell that not many Skyrim mages know."

"Correct," Anya agreed, not sure where he was going with this line of thinking. But she liked Veezara so far. She trusted that he was going somewhere well thought out, so she didn't interrupt or ask why. Bryn always followed her lead so he remained silent and watchful. 

"Like those of us in the Dark Brotherhood, most Thieves Guild members, even such accomplished and illustrious members as The Thief Lord, do not trouble themselves to learn more than the most basic of destruction and illusion spells to aid them in their. . . Endeavors, shall we say?"

"I know almost all of the spells," Anya interjected, playing Daedra's Advocate. If she did, then couldn't others?

"Ah, but you are a special case, Dragonborn," Veezara said, with a slight smile. "We cannot compare anyone to you."

Anya blushed. It had been stupid to mention her knowledge of spell work and magic. She had spent a great deal of time at Winterhold before she ever really understood her Dragonborn nature. A great deal of time to learn even the most advanced of spells, such as Paralyze and Command Daedra. But she hadn't even heard of spells like Ash Shells and Ash Runes until she'd traveled to Solstheim to stop Miraak and his world-conquering plan. 

"You're right," she admitted at last. Most of us don't use or even know advanced spells."

"In fact, Anya," Veezara said, his eyes narrowing. "Most of us would be incapable of even learning Expert level spells at all."

"So, what is your point?" She asked, growing impatient.

"My point," Veezara said, gazing into her eyes with his muddy green ones. "Is that I do not believe that Mercer Frey would be capable of even casting such an advanced piece of magic. You must know what it takes to cast an Ash Rune?" 

She looked back at him, inexplicably angry. Perhaps because he was making it harder and harder to hope that Mercer might still be out there, alive and well somewhere? She had to admit that she had never seen Mercer cast more than a candlelight spell. At last, she nodded. "Yes, it does take a great deal of magica and effort of will to cast that particular rune. Especially against one so well-versed in the protective arts as Collette Marence is. . . Was."

"By Ysmir's Beard!" Brynjolf murmured. "So whoever this son of a Daedra is, he's made a mistake by using an Ash Rune to kill Marence."

"Yes," Veezara said, obviously pleased that they understood. "Whoever cast that spell on the poor woman has spent a great deal of time, perhaps was even born on Solstheim. Whoever he is is a gifted mage indeed." 

"But why would he be trying to implicate someone who is obviously very dead?" Anya asked. She was feeling tired and dispirited, thinking about a world once more bereft of Mercer Frey. It had seemed almost exciting before. Now it was just as awful as it had been before the first murder. She rubbed her eyes, wishing she'd never met Veezara suddenly. That she'd never noticed the light burning in Mercer's attic room.

"Whoever it is clearly knows that Mercer Frey was very important to someone at the Guild. Someone who clearly has a stake in wishing Frey was still very much alive." Veezara stared pointedly at Anya, who squirmed in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs as she tried for a more comfortable position. 

Brynjolf looked at Veezara, confused. "Just what the Daedra are you getting at, Argonian?"

"I think it would be best if Anya told you herself, Brynjolf." Veezara looked at Anya again and she grimaced. How the Daedra did he know?

"By Oblivion!" She spat. "How did you know?"

"Once I was a Shadowscale, trained by the Dark Brotherhood from the day I was hatched." Veezara's tail curled around one of the legs of the chair he sat astride. "We were trained from the earliest age to read people's feelings and emotions. To glean information from every word we overheard. Let's just say that from the moment we began talking about Mercer, it was obvious to me, Anya." 

Anya looked down at her feet, ashamed at being so transparent, just as Brynjolf exploded with, "God's Blood! I have no idea what the Daedra either of you are on about! Explain yourselves!"

Anya couldn't look at him; she traced an aimless pattern on the knee of her pants with one shaking finger. She cleared her throat at last and said in a small voice, "Mercer and I were. . . Involved, Bryn."

Brynjolf gasped. "You were what, in love with the fiend?"

Anya looked up, shocked. "He wasn't a fiend, Bryn! He was just a man. Apparently a very fallible man, like all of us." 

"Last I checked, none of us betrayed the the sacred bond of the Guild, Anya Dragonborn!" Brynjolf exploded, and then lowered his voice. "Look, I'm sorry, Lass. We don't get to choose who we love, I know. Life is short and brutal here, especially for thieves and assassins and sometimes romances just happen. I'll try not to judge you on this, but I don't know if anyone else will understand it."

"And that's exactly why I never told anyone, Bryn!" Anya yelled. "I thought he was a popinjay when I met him, strutting around the guild like some minor god. But somehow, it happened. And now, he's gone, and I'm still left with these. . . These feelings! I wish I could change it, but I can't." 

Veezara stared awkwardly at the glowing coals of the fire, avoiding either of their gazes. She glared at him and then looked back at Brynjolf. "Not to change the subject, but from what Veezara just said, I gather he means that someone is trying to get to me, to make me think Mercer is still alive."

"Seems so," Brynjolf grunted, still looking vexed with Anya. He folded his arms across his chest and looked stonily back at her. "So what are we going to do about it?"

Anya looked at him like he might have been hit with the Wabbajack a time or two. "We go to Shadowmarsh Grove, by Ysmir, and we find out what in Oblivion is going on."

"But that would be playing right into this devil's hands!" Brynjolf said, rolling his eyes. 

"Well, what else do you want me to say, Bryn? That we should go hide under our beds like a passel of milk drinkers until the murders stop?"

Veezara hissed again and they both looked at him. Anya had just about forgotten he was there in the heat of the moment. "Perhaps I could suggest a safer course of action?"

"Please," Brynjolf said, gesturing with one hand for the Argonian to go on. "By all means. Anything to keep Anya from blundering into a trap."

"I never blunder anywhere!" Anya spluttered. 

Veezara raised his hands up in placation. "No one will be blundering anywhere. Hear me out, all right?" Anya and Brynjolf nodded reluctantly and he continued. "I suggest that we send a retinue of men from both the Brotherhood and the Guild to check it out first."

"And women," Anya interjected. She hated when men thought that only they could be the heroes. Hadn't she proven them wrong time and again?

"And women," Veezara agreed, smiling slightly. "Anya will go along of course and lead the party. But she will be backed by the best. . . Individuals that both of our outfits have to offer."

Brynjolf nodded, pleased. "Yes. That's sound advice, Veezara. I agree to your plan."

Veezara looked at Anya. "And you, Anya? What do you say?"

Anya sighed. "I agree to it." She wasn't happy with it however. She had wanted to sneak into this Shadowmarsh Grove herself quietly and find out who was behind the murders. She didn't want to admit it even to herself, but she realized she might have even been hoping that she would find that it was Mercer, somehow alive and well, that she would discover waiting for her. 

But what would she have done if she found him, she wondered. Would she fall into his arms, thrilled that he was alive? Probably not. More than likely, he would be spoiling for her death as revenge for her arrow in his chest . Wouldn't he be wanting revenge for her turning the guild against him? "All right," she said, feeling slightly nauseated and very sad. "We'd better get started, picking out our retinue of people and get going. We've only got five days until the 30th, and a long horseback trip to Morthal. In fact, I have no idea how we'll get your people from Falkreath in time, Veezara."

"I left a group of my best men camped out with the Khajit party, just outside of Riften. All we need do is choose the people you'd like to bring from the Guild and we can be on our way tonight if need be."

Anya had to admire him for that. As little as she liked murder for hire, the Brotherhood were canny survivors clearly. "Right then," she said, standing up and dusting her hands off on her pants. "Let's get going!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't written any more on this story because I wasn't sure who the murderer actually was and I was worried that I had painted myself into a Skyrim corner. But suddenly, it occurred to me and here is the next chapter! I hope you enjoy it and I'd love to hear where you think it is going and what you think of it so far. :-)


	4. Chapter Four--Shadowmarsh Grove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya and Brynjolf travel to Shadowmarsh Grove with some familiar companions to try to find the killer.

31st day of Morningstar 

 

Anya stretched and yawned, tossing back the warm, soft saber cat furs she'd slept under, and then yanked them back up over her shoulders. It was chilly this morning and rain tapped and pattered lightly on the outside of the mammoth skin tent. She could hear birds chirping, a fire crackling and the mingled smells of smoke, cooking stew and tea made her stomach grumble. 

Dawn barely seemed to have registered on the day, though she was sure it must be past six bells. She closed her eyes and thought about the journey so far.

It had been a long trek from Riften on the way to Shadowmarsh Grove. None of them had been there before, and the party had spent a good deal of time trudging through thick brush and bracken, and fighting off the annoying and vicious Chaurus and Frost Spiders that haunted the marshy regions of Skyrim. Thankfully, she thought, there'd been no dragons thus far. 

"Anya lass, are you up?" Brynjolf sounded as tired as she felt. She opened her eyes and could see Bryn's leather-clad legs and fur-booted feet standing just beyond the triangular opening of the tent.

"Unfortunately, yes," she called, throwing back the furs again and reaching for her leather Guild armor. She pulled it on and buckled it up, snapping, "I'll be out directly."

"Veezara has food on the fire if you'd like to break your fast," Bryn said, ignoring her grumpiness. He knew Anya after all this time and she was always grumpy in the morning. 

Someone had smartly thought to tie a mammoth skin up as a makeshift roof between three spindly trees, so the whole party sheltered there together as they ate. Veezara seemed able to produce delicious meals wherever they camped. 

He had promised to teach her an old Shadowscale technique of drawing animals to be captured easily. She had no idea how he did it. But it would be very convenient on quests. She and her followers had gone hungry many a night when no animals presented themselves for the kill. 

He had made a quick rabbit stew complete with wild carrots, leeks and herbs this morning. It was just what they all needed to warm up on this miserable, rainy morning and she commented on it gratefully as she sipped the fragrant broth. "Veezara, you missed your true calling as a chef, my friend. You give the Gourmet a run for his selptims!"

"Really, Anya," Babette drawled. "You'll give the old lizard a swelled head if you're not careful!" 

They all laughed. Babette looked like an adorable ten year old girl, but she was in reality over three hundred years old and a fierce and dangerous vampire. She had been an excellent companion on this trip, Anya thought. Not only was she a silent stalker, she was one of the best fighters Anya had seen in all of Skyrim. And that was saying something. I suppose she's had 300 years to perfect her technique, Anya thought, wondering what it must be like to have seen so many people live and die, so many kings and queens rise and fall from power. 

Dro'marash, a Khajit warrior who most often protected the Riften Khajit caravan, had joined them on the first day, wisely invited by Veezara and Babette. Dro’marash was exceptionally quiet, only occasionally joining their fireside chats at night before bed. But he'd been invaluable on more than one occasion over the last four days. Anya privately longed to stroke his silky grey fur like a great tabby cat, but knew he wouldn't approve. Khajits didn't mingle with anyone but their own kind, she knew. 

After they finished breakfast, they broke camp and began the short hike to Shadowmarsh Grove, if Mercer's map was to be trusted. They'd camped a couple of miles from the grove because they would've arrived at night, and no one wanted to see what Shadowmarsh Grove held in store for them under cover of darkness. Even confronting a new place by the dreary light of this rainy day would be imposing, but any extra light they could use to see what lay ahead would surely be helpful, Anya thought. 

They arrived in what had to be the grove after an hour's walk, uninterrupted by anything other than the cheerful sounds of birds and the ever-present Skyrim crickets. Anya's mood hadn't really lifted much. She was worried about what they would find and knew everyone else was too. There had been no more chatter after breakfast. Everyone was on high alert for traps or ambushes. Whoever had killed the two people was clearly very clever. 

The grove was in a large clearing of ancient oak trees that surrounded the mouth of a very dark-looking cave. "By Ysmir's beard," Brynjolf whispered, startling her. "This looks like the place."

"Well, no sense in standing around outside," Babette said starchily. Anya was again impressed by her apparent bravery. "We'd best get inside and see whatever this fiend has in store for us."

"Yessss," Dro'marash hissed in his throaty Kahjit purr. "No time like the pressent."

No one could argue with that logic, so they lit torches and crept inside.

\-----

The cave was typical of Skyrim: a low ceiling of rough stone, dank water dripping all around them, and the smell of mold and mildew filling their nostrils. It was even colder inside than it was out this morning. The faint sound of clanking and whirring machinery in the distance told them there was probably some form of Dwemer ruins inside. 

The tunnel sloped sharply downward for about 100 yards and then abruptly opened into a much higher ceiling and wider space filled with flickering shadows from their torchlight. There were several portholes of brassy dwarven metal interspersed on the stone walls around them. "I don't like the looks of those," Anya murmured, gesturing to them. 

"Nor do I, sister," Veezara said, his webbed hand on the hilt of his sword at his waist. 

"Just be on your guard, everyone," Brynjolf said. Babette and Dro'marash were silent, but the Khajiit drew his scimitar and Babette's hands glowed red with her powerful drain health spells. 

They could just make out the shape of an old wooden cart, lying on its side nearby, and a rough table and two broken chairs opposite. They walked over to the table, everyone keeping careful watch. The only things on the table were a folded piece of parchment and a large, tarnished silver skeleton key with a tag attached. Anya picked the parchment up and opened it to find a note written in a curly, elegant hand. Her heart sank when she realized it wasn't Mercer's. He really wasn’t alive. She read it aloud:

"One step ahead of you, all the way, Dragonborn. Have you enjoyed our little game so far? I knew using Frey's Shadowmark would capture your attention. You humans are so pathetic, always thinking of the things you've lost. I could end your life right now if I chose, but I'm having too much fun, leading you around like a bull with a ring in its nose. You can be sure you'll hear from me again. Now, please enjoy playing with some new 'friends'. --T"

"Who the Daedra is this T fellow?" Bryn asked, his brow furrowed with worry. 

"I don't have a clue," Anya mused, racking her brain for any name that might ring a bell. Nothing did.

"Frankly, I'm more concerned with these new friends he referred to in his note," Babette said, looking all around the room. 

"Yesss," Dro'marash said. "We should investigate the room and then be on our way before anything else happens."

But before they could investigate, there was a hiss and the clatter of metal behind them and they all whirled to see a Dwarven Sphere Guardian rolling out of one of the golden circles on the walls. "Over there!" Veezara pointed at another one just emerging from another Dwarven porthole, it's skeletal, golden body unfolding as it rolled, already brandishing a wicked looking blade. 

Anya drew her sword and held her shield up as Dro'marash shouted, "God's Blood!" Behind him, a deadly Dwarven ballista skittered toward them on its pincer-like legs, already arming its lethal golden spears with a sound of gears smoothly working. Her heart began to hammer with adrenaline and they all launched themselves at the animunculi.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Anya and Babette took on the ballista themselves, Anya hacking away at its hard carapace and somewhat more fragile legs with her sword and staggering it with her shield as Babette drained its life force as fast as she could. Not before Anya's shield bristled with three of the ballista's spears, their wicked tips gleaming through the back of the shield, having just penetrated the Elven metal. 

All around them, the deafening sounds of battle--swords clashing against metal, the click of the animunculi's pointed feet against stone, the grunts and exclamations of the others as they worked to disarm these ancient, ingenious Dwemer inventions. 

One last swipe with her sword, and the great ballista abruptly tipped over with a massive thud and a furious exhalation of steam, dead. But there was no time to even take a breath before a horde of tiny Dwarven spiders leaped out of the portholes to join the Sphere Guardians being battled by the group. 

Anya lost track of what Babette was doing as she lurched across the room to help Veezara, who was cornered by two Sphere Guardians, hacking and slashing at him with metronomic regularity. It was terrifying to see the mindless zeal with which they attacked. Other than the drain life spell, which Anya didn't possess, not being a vampire, magic didn't work on Dwarven animunculi, so she was forced to continue to flail at them with her sword and shield. 

Veezara and she managed to incapacitate one of the guardians and two of the spiders, but not before the other guardian slashed deeply through Veezara's leather armor, cutting the green skin of his chest. He hissed in pain as the blood began to flow and gave one more mighty bash with his sword at the remaining guardian, and they watched its head fly across the room to crash against one of the stone walls. 

Veezara sank to the floor, one hand over his bleeding chest as Anya rushed to help Dro'marash, Babette and Brynjolf kill the last of the spiders, who were doing their best to shock the men to death. A spider leaped onto Anya's back and she shuddered at the sickening feel of its cold and sharp, brassy feet in her hair and on the back of her neck as it scrabbled and scratched for a purchase. She reached blindly back, grabbed one of its legs and flung it across the room as hard as she could, where it shattered in a shower of blue sparks. 

She cast wildly about the room for the next invader, but it seemed they had vanquished them all. The battle had felt like it took an hour or more, but in reality, it probably wasn’t much longer than ten minutes before they had killed them all. 

Untidy heaps of shiny metal animunculi parts and soul gems littered the room. Anya’s heart was thumping so hard, she was afraid she might pass out. Across the room, Brynjolf was holding out a hand to help Dro'marash to his feet. Babette was already at Veezara's side, whipping a healing potion out of the pocket of her dress, her usually tidy brown hair spilling around her face and shoulders like a waterfall. 

"Frostfire! Who is this son of a Daedra?" Brynjolf cursed angrily. "When I get my hands on him, I'll ring his clever little neck!"

Dro'marash dusted off his leather armor and smoothed down the fur around his face and neck. "Yesss, Dro'marash is most displeased with this outcome. This has just become personal."

Veezara stood up slowly, Babette helping him as the healing potion began to take effect. He was panting and looked to still be in quite a lot of pain. Anya suddenly noticed that the back of her neck hurt a lot, slid her hand under her hair and felt warm wetness there. Blood covered her fingertips when she held her hand in front of her face. "By Thorig, that blasted spider did something to the back of my neck! I'm bleeding, Babette. Do you have more of that potion?"

"Are you all right, lass?" Brynjolf came rushing over to her, followed closely by Dro'marash. 

"I'm sure I'll be fine once Babette sees to me, Bryn. Don't worry." She flapped her hands at him as he tried to look at the wounds and he backed off.

Babette ran over to Anya and handed her the bottle to drink from as she lifted Anya's hair gently off the back of her neck. "Ooh, it really sliced you up, Anya! But you'll be fine after a drink of my healing elixir. Drink," she urged.

Everyone stood around, watching. 

Anya was always amazed at how tasty healing potions were. Even though she knew the best ones were made from blue mountain flower, wheat and disgustingly enough, a real giant's toe, they always tasted as if they'd been crafted from the freshest, sweetest cloud berries. The bubbly liquid soothed her instantly as she drank it, and her neck began to feel less painful within moments. 

"Thank you, sister," she whispered, wiping her mouth with the back of one hand and then stoppering the bottle again with the small cork the vampire girl had handed her along with the bottle. "You are a godsend."

"Thank you, Anya. Now, anyone else need this?" Babette asked, holding up the bottle and sloshing the ruby-colored contents around. 

"No, Dro'marash is unharmed." The Khajit brushed invisible specks of dust from his armor.

"I'm right as rain, by Talos," Brynjolf said, still clearly shaken by the battle. 

The bottle disappeared into Babette's skirts without another word from the vampire. "Good. Now, what's our next move, Anya?" she asked. 

"What happened to that key?" Anya asked, wishing she'd stuffed the key into one of her pockets before all the animunculi had attacked. 

They searched frantically around the room, kicking aside animunculi parts and turning chairs over. The table had been splintered to bits and at first they thought the key had simply disappeared, when Veezara cried, "I found it!" And held up something that glinted in the firelight.

They all raced over to Veezara and crowded around the light of one torch to see what the tag attached to the key said. "Hagraven Rest," Babette said in her child's voice. "Whoever this T is, he certainly is leading us around Skyrim, isn't he?"

Hagraven Rest was apparently near Dawnstar, where the ancient Dark Brotherhood sanctuary was. "I think the question is this," Veezara said. "Do we continue to follow the orders of this madman who is obviously bent on Anya's destruction?"

"What do you mean, do we follow?" Anya asked, shocked. "Of course we do!"

"No, I think the Argonian is right, lass," Brynjolf said. "Whoever this T is, whatever he wants, well, it can't be good."

"Dro'marash concurs," the Khajit said, hands on his hips. Babette was the only one not to throw in an opinion. She stood quietly, listening. 

Anya stared at them all, not sure exactly what to say at first. And then she realized. "No, he probably isn't going to hand me a medal at the end of this quest, but we have to stop him." She looked from face to serious face in the firelight. "By Talos, this T has killed our friends and sullied the name of Mercer Frey!"

Brynjolf cleared his throat. "Uh, Anya—Need I remind you that Mercer already did a fair job of sullying his own name, lass?"

They all chuckled nervously, Anya included. "I know, Bryn. But then he tried to make it look even worse. That's not okay, is it?" Bryn shook his head. "We have to stop this son of a Daedra so he can't kill anyone else."

They all stood silently staring at one another for a long moment, everyone shuffling their feet and fidgeting awkwardly. Finally Veezara said, "Well, when you put it that way, I see your point, Anya. We would be remiss in our duties if we let this swamp devil live a day longer than we have to."

"All right, lass," Brynjolf said at last. "I'm in."

Anya looked at Babette and Dro'marash. "Let's go kill ourselves a murderer, by Pelagius," Babette said, her wickedly sharp fangs glinting as she grinned. 

Dro'marash nodded his head and said in a low purr, "Then it’s settled. We leave tomorrow morning for Hagraven Rest, my friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this latest installment of my little Skyrim murder mystery. I'm really having fun figuring out where it's going with each section, and I now know "whodunnit"! I wonder if any of you will have any ideas about who it might be after reading this part? Enjoy!


	5. Hagraven Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya Dragonslayer and her friends find Hagraven Rest.

6th of Sun's Dawn, Somewhere outside Dawnstar. . .

The party had been blundering around through the wilds outside of Dawnstar for almost a day now and Anya was just about ready to give up. T's map hadn't proved as accurate in marking Hagraven Rest as it had with the other locations and even Babette had remarked that most likely, T had done this on purpose, to lead them further afield and exhaust them even more. 

They had run into three frost trolls alone that morning and had just dispatched with a vicious ice wraith moments before. 

As ever, it was much colder in Northern Skyrim, and small skirls of snowflakes fell continually, making it difficult to see more than a few hundred feet ahead of them. Anya felt as if she might never truly warm up again and at this point, wished only for the comforts of her bed chamber in Riften, where she could draw a steaming hot bath and then slip between smooth, clean sheets for a long night's rest. 

She knew that a long night’s rest probably wouldn’t have come, no matter what, with all the nightmares she still suffered after Irkngthand, but it was a tempting daydream. She had felt deeply disappointed multiple times since realizing that Mercer Frey truly hadn’t been behind any of the murders. 

It had been silly to suppose that he might have escaped not only the chest shot with her arrow, but being drowned at the bottom of Irkngthand. Every time she thought of it, she imagined Mercer’s lifeless body drifting in the watery, dark depths. She shuddered, wishing yet again that he hadn’t had to die. 

The afternoon was bright for a change, the sun slipping in and out of the clouds between bouts of chilling snow and wind. They were tramping down a winding ancient road paved with the broken cobblestone that marked most Skyrim roads. It was lined on either side with low, undulating stone walls, a peculiarity of the Dawnstar region that Anya had always found charming. 

The sun came out from behind the clouds, nearly blinding her with brilliant, golden light, just as she heard the unmistakable sound of an arrow whistling by her ear. The deep, throaty growl of an Orc voice taunted them from behind a copse of trees nearby, "You picked a bad time to get lost, friend!"

Her heart already pounding, she nocked an ebony arrow and aimed carefully towards the copse of trees. This bandit obviously didn't have any idea who he had just threatened. The entire party was suddenly bristling with weapons. "We mean you no harm, Sir," Anya called. 

Three large Orcs slipped out from behind the trees, two brandishing cruel-looking Orcish maces and one (the fool who had volleyed an arrow at them moments before, Anya thought) an Orcish bow. The Orcs looked brutish and dumb, but Anya knew that bandits were generally anything but. You didn't survive in the wilds of Skyrim as a bandit for long if you didn't have the smarts necessary. 

"We aren't here to fight you," Veezara hissed, narrowing his eyes. "It would be best for you if you moved along, friends."

"Lookee here--looks like we got ourselves a hero!" One of the Orcs mocked, and they all hooted derisive laughter, their ugly faces crinkling up. 

"Maybe we'd make ourselves a trade for the pretty little lady. . ." One of the bandits said, gesturing at Babette. 

Anya was disgusted, knowing what they meant to do with what they thought was an innocent 10 year old girl. They all looked at Babette, who went along with the act. This was her favorite ruse, Anya knew. Dro'Marash hissed his disapproval but didn't say a word, just held his sword at the ready. 

"You would take an innocent girl from the safety of her party, Sir?" 

"It gets awful lonely on the road," the big Orc growled, staring hungrily at Babette, who hid her face in her hands and edged closer to Veezara and Brynjolf as if terrified. Anya imagined that she was actually trying to hide the sharp vampire teeth that lurked behind a sly smile. 

"Yeah, hand her over and no one gets hurt!" One of the other Orcs yelled, rocking to and fro in attack stance, his mace waving mesmerizingly. 

Babette took her hands down from her face and called to them in her disturbingly childish voice, "If I come with you, you'll let my friends go, kind sirs?"

"Oh yeah," the biggest Orc said. "And we'll treat you real good."

"Well," Babette appeared to consider. She looked back at Anya and the rest of the party, as if trying to decide. Instead, she winked and smiled at them, showing teeth that had just grown longer and wickedly sharp. She wanted to have a little fun with these marauders. Then she turned back to the bandits with a worried expression on her little face. "If it will help my friends, then I will come with you."

Anya played along. “No, Babette! Don’t do it!”

“It will be all right, friends,” Babette whimpered. “Say goodbye to my parents for me!”

Babette’s parents had been dead for over 300 years of course, but the bandits wouldn’t know this. “They’ll get exactly what they deserve,” Anya thought. 

Babette walked hesitantly toward the bandits, who laughed meanly. One of them, an Orc with near tusks protruding from his mouth, called out to them, "if any one of you tries anything, you'll all die!" He grabbed Babette by the arm, jerking her away with a faked squeal of fear, and they disappeared behind the trees as if they'd never been there at all. 

"Are you sure she'll be--". Brynjolf began to ask in a low voice. 

Veezara smiled grimly, his scaly eyes crinkling into a smile. "They don't stand a chance against her, Brother. Just wait."

"But with three against one. . . ?" Dro'Marash asked, just as they began to hear shrieks of fear and pain from behind the copse of trees. From the Orcs. Anya smiled. Right on cue, she thought. 

A few minutes later, Babette strolled back into view, brushing invisible specks of dirt from her skirts and smiling broadly. "Why, I haven't had so much fun since the Great War!" She declared. 

"I see what you mean, Veezara," Brynjolf gulped. "Remind me not to get on Babette's bad side, by Shor's boots!" They all laughed as Babette rejoined them, her face flushed with the blood of three Orcs. 

__________

 

Just before dusk, they found what they thought must be Hagraven Rest. The map showed that there was some sort of standing stone that marked the place, and about a half league from where they ended up, Anya and Babette both felt the telltale prickling in their extremities that generally signified that a powerful magical object was nearby. Only practitioners of advanced magics would have sensed it, but Babette was as well-versed in wizardry as Anya was. They turned to each other almost as one, eyebrows raised. "Did you feel that, sister?" Babette asked. 

Anya nodded and pointed in the direction she felt it, North. They continued on, more quietly now, everyone sure they were at last on the right track. The snow had begun to fall in earnest an hour before and now they were hiking through a light, airy powder and visibility was down to almost nothing, it being close to dusk. 

The ticklish, almost pleasant tingling in Anya's fingers and toes had increased the closer they had come to the place, and finally, an enormous, dark shadow loomed in front of them and became the telltale ovoid shape of a standing stone. 

They stood in a loose horseshoe-shape around the front of it. Everyone could feel the magica that writhed over the surface of the stone, and little glints of blue light danced around the carving in the front that signified what gift this standing stone would bestow upon the wizard that chose to accept it.

"Ahh, the fabled Storm Stone," Veezara rasped. 

"I've never heard of this one," Anya murmured. "What does it do?"

"I had assumed that it was merely a Shadowscale myth, but from what I understand, sister, it allows the user to create a terrible but focused storm of some sort that only effects those who bear you ill-will."

"Hmmm. . ." Anya mused. "That could come in quite handy, my friends."

"Dro'Marash concurs," the Khajit nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps you should accept this gift, Anya Dragonslayer."

"Good idea, lass," Brynjolf agreed, folding his arms across his chest. "We need all the help we can get with this Son of a Daedra, T."

Anya nodded. She had had the gift of the Steed Stone for perhaps far too long at this point. Maybe it was a good time to change. She centered herself in front of it, placed her palms together in the prayer position and took a deep, calming breath. She closed her eyes, and as she had learned so long ago, opened her mind to accept the gift of the stone.

An unpleasant thrumming prickle danced over the surface of her skin and then seemed to force its way inside her body, quickly becoming throbbing pain that centered itself just behind her eyes. The clearing around her began to seem faint and faded. Alarmed, she looked around at her companions, who were looking back at her with raised eyebrows as if surprised. 

"Something's not right," she began to say, but the very breath was stolen from her and she couldn't get another word out. 

"Anya!" Brynjolf yelled from a thousand leagues away, his voice distorted and twisted.   
She tried to close her mind and stop whatever was happening, but it was too late. She felt a horrid pulling sensation at the center of her being and tried to scream, but it didn't seem possible to make a sound anymore. It was like all the terrible dreams you have where a monster is chasing you and you can't yell for help or even move. 

All too quickly, everything went dark.

___________

6th of Sun's Dawn, sometime later, someplace else. . .

When she opened her eyes again, she was alone in a totally different place. Her entire body ached and throbbed with pain. She was lying on a hard, smooth stone floor. She pushed herself up to rest on her elbows and look around. 

All of the light had a strange, green tint to it, and the sky above was an undulating mass of clouds, but no sun in sight. It looked familiar somehow. . . She heard a deep, stentorian growl from far away, and her stomach clenched in recognition as she looked around. 

Dark, pointed arches of stone circled what appeared to be an enormous temple. Beyond those, the enormous skeletons of dragons littered the floor in places. At the very center of the temple, what looked to be either an elven or human skeleton lay half in, half out of an oily-looking pool of liquid. 

“By the Nine,” she breathed softly. “The summit of Apocrypha?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the next chapter will be the last in my little Skyrim mystery. I'm sad to finish it up, but I've been having a lot of fun writing it! I hope you've enjoyed it!


	6. At the Summit of Apocrypha. . .  Again?!?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya finally discovers the identity of the murderer. Will she survive the encounter?

Somewhere/Somewhen not in Skyrim. . .

Anya groaned and rolled over onto her hands and knees, sand grating between her skin and smooth, strangely warm flagstones. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her as she tried to lurch to a standing position and she sat back down, hard, to look around her and get her bearings if possible.

She was outside in some sort of temple-like area. Rough stone arches rose gracefully to meet in pointed tops all around her in a vast circle. The sky was filled with dark, roiling clouds and the oily, greenish light hung like a suffocating shroud over everything. Here and there in the distance were revolving columns of something. . . Books. . . Strange moans permeated the still air from time to time. 

Strange tentacle-like protuberances dangled from the middle of the open air in places, gently undulating in breezes Anya couldn't feel. She began to realize where she was when she noticed the huge, whitened dragon bones that lay like tumbled monuments in places. Here, the gaping maw of a skeletal head, an enormous, twisting spine nearby, an gigantic taloned claw only feet from where she lay. 

"By the Nine," she breathed softly, feeling her heart begin to hammer against the inside of her chest. "Apocrypha!" She was in the outdoor temple of Miraak, the evil Dragonborn wizard she had defeated only a couple of sun cycles ago. She forced herself to stand up, nearly blacking out in the process, but at last gaining her footing by sheer force of will. 

She stood there, swaying just a bit and breathing deeply to calm and center herself. Who had brought her to this awful place, the daedric realm of Hermaeus Mora? She looked all around her carefully, searching for anyone alive. As far as she could tell, she was completely alone. It certainly wasn't unheard of to be spirited away by the daedric princes themselves, she thought. 

"Herma Mora?" She called, looking up at the troubled sky. "Are you responsible for this?" She waited, but the daedric prince didn't appear. She realized she was holding her breath and let it out in a rush, feeling relief when oxygen filled her lungs again. 

Who in the name of the Three had done this to her and how was she going to get back to her friends? They must be sick with worry. She quickly pieced together what had happened: the moment she had opened herself magically to the standing stone, she had been dragged away to Apocrypha somehow. 

That was very powerful, advanced magic. 

Anya couldn't even imagine how it had been accomplished. No one knew how the standing stones of Skyrim had come to be, who had created them, how they had imbued each stone with unique potent magic that enhanced the powers of the mages who opened themselves to it. 

As far as anyone knew, the first people to arrive in Skyrim had found the standing stones where they stood eons ago. Perhaps the Daedric princes themselves had placed them there. It didn't seem possible that a mere mortal could have somehow changed the very properties of one of these formidable monoliths and bent it to their own will. 

"By Ysmir's beard," Anya whispered, feeling chilled at the thought of a mage with such mastery over the magical world. She knew of only a few mages in all of Skyrim or beyond that she might attribute such abilities to and she still wondered how he or she had done it. 

Savos Aren, who had been the Archmage at the college of Winterhold when Anya first enrolled years ago, had been a true master of the magicks. But he had been killed during the Eye of Magnus crisis. A terrible business, that. She could never forget finding his mangled body, blasted out of the hall of the Elements. Mirabelle Ervine, the college's Master Wizard, had also been an unusually skilled wizard, but alas, she too, had met a wicked ending during the Eye of Magnus crisis. 

The Dunmer wizard, Master Neloth, from the isle of Solstheim in Morrowind, was at least a living candidate. He had taught Anya much about Dunmer Magic and spells, and certainly knew the ash shell spell that had been used to suffocate poor Collette Marence to death. But she couldn't imagine any reason that he might harbor any anger or grudge against her that would cause him to create such an elaborate game of murder and intrigue as whoever had done all this. For Auriel's sake, he had made her a part of House Telvani to thank her for her help after all. 

She found herself pacing back and forth across the abnormally warm flagstones. The stones of Apocrypha always felt uncomfortably warm to her. As if they were actually a part of Hermaeus Mora's very body. 

Who could have done this, she wondered again. "Gods!" She snapped. "Is there no one I can fight to get away from this dreadful place?" Every time before she had been brought to Apocrypha by reading one of Herma Mora's vile black books, and she could always leave the realm by opening the same book again. But this time she had no black book to draw her back to Solstheim. 

"That's right, Dragonborn," an imperious, male voice said from behind her. She whirled around, but saw no one at first. "You are trapped in old Herma Mora's realm with me!"

"Show yourself, you son of a Daedra!" She yelled, clenching her fists even as she reached for her sword. 

And he did, materializing out of thin air with a flourish of one hand and a wry smile. She gasped with the shock. "Talvas Fathryon?" She said, feeling winded. Indeed, Master Neloth's apprentice stood about fifty paces away from her in his brown and gold apprentice robes. 

His intelligent red eyes narrowed below his arched eyebrows. "Who else could have accomplished such wonders, Anya Dragonborn? I, who studied for over a decade under the great Master Neloth of the House Telvani. I, who slaved and labored and made his foul highness endless cups of that dreadful canis root tea. I, who did everything he asked, without complaint for FIFTEEN AGONIZING YEARS! And never a single thank you, Talvas! Fine work, Talvas! Let me make you a member of my house, Talvas!" He spat on the ground angrily and glared at her. 

"Talvas?" Anya said again, stupidly, still unable to make sense of this. Why would he have done this? She felt lightheaded and sick. 

"Yes, I, Talvas Fathryon, one of the greatest Dunmer mages for the last three eras. And you had no idea!" He said triumphantly.

"No, I. . ." Anya trailed off, staring at his angry face. It was impossible to see Talvas as the architect of this trail of blood and fear. "But you were my follower for a time. I thought we were. . . Well, if not friends, then at least. . . Respectful of each other's abilities?"

Talvas' face darkened into a frown. "Oh, of course! The whole world respects the great Anya Dragonborn." He said this as if he had a foul insect in his mouth, his voice full of disgust and loathing. "We must all bow down and worship the first Dragonborn since the loathsome Miraak!" 

"Stop!" Anya said. "I don't understand you, Talvas! I've never asked anyone to worship me or even like me. I can't help how I was born or who I was destined to be."

Talvas folded his arms across his chest, anger darkening his face even more. Nay, Anya thought. Hatred filled his features, made them ugly. "No, but the whole world loves you and sees all of the accomplishments, all of the brilliant things you've done, the ways you've saved the world over and over." 

"What does this have to do with all of this?" She gestured around her, at the temple, but she really meant all of the murders, the deceptions, leading Anya and her friends around Skyrim to culminate in her winding up with Talvas in Apocrypha. Confusion was rapidly merging into anger and hurt. Why would he do all of this? "Are you jealous of me, Talvas?"

At this, if possible, Talvas' scowl deepened even more and he took a threatening step towards her. She didn't back away. She had no reason to be afraid of a mere mage, she knew. "Jealous? Jealous?" He rolled his eyes and then glared at her. "Was the Devourer of Worlds, the great Alduin, jealous of the lowly Skeever?" 

Is he comparing me to a Skeever, she wondered, surprised and, absurdly, hurt. She raised her eyebrows at him. "What are you trying to--"

"No, I'm not JEALOUS of you, Anya Dragonborn!" Talvas roared. "I'm angry!"

"About what?" Anya asked. "You're obviously a fabulously accomplished mage, Talvas. You are clearly supremely clever, to lead us all over Skyrim on a wild goose chase, by Shor's boots! What do you have to be angry about, you fiendish murdering son of a Daedra?" 

"Do you remember when I told you that one day I would inherit all of Neloth's power, Anya?"

"Of course I do, "Anya snapped. I thought it was an impertinent comment for a mere apprentice to make." 

If possible, Talvas' face grew even darker at this, and his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. "You thought it was an--" he rolled his eyes and looked heavenward. "I had been his 'apprentice' for over ten years at that point. I had been ready to become a Master for five of those years!"

"I understand that you're upset, Talvas, but--"

Talvas held his hand up to interrupt her. "No, you obviously understand nothing, you over-privileged, spoiled woman!"

Over-privileged? Spoiled? Anya felt fresh hurt wash over her. She had come from humble beginnings indeed, an orphan, not even knowing who her blood relatives might be, raised amongst poor Breton shepherds. She had discovered her Dragonborn nature completely by accident and had done everything to help Skyrim and Morrowind every day of her life, even if it meant that she died doing so. "You cut me to the quick, Talvas!" She began, but he interrupted again. 

"And yet do you deny that only a month after meeting you, Master Neloth made you a member of he great House Telvani!"

"I know that," Anya snapped. "But I had tracked down and killed his arch-enemy, The great sorceress Ildari Sarothril, who meant to end his life!"

"And you think all of the things I had done for him for a decade and a half weren't worthy of being made a member of his household? That I should just remain an apprentice for the rest of my miserable life?"

"Of course not!" Anya yelled, her hand on the hilt of her sword, tension thrumming through every muscle in her body. "But why is it my fault that Master Neloth hasn't treated you fairly? Why kill MY friends, torment me and make me believe the man I loved was still alive?"

Talvas took a menacing step toward her, raising the staff he held in his right hand. The soul gem at the tip of it crackled with malevolent energy. She didn't back down. She knew advanced shield spells. "It has little to do with you. I need to make him suffer! To pay for overlooking me, for treating me like a slave--gods--less than that even, for all these years!"

"And I am just a means to an end then?" Anya asked. 

Talvas nodded, a smirk crossing his face briefly. "It is just so."

"Talvas, I thought better of you," she breathed, shocked. 

"As if I care what you think of me, vermin!"

Now Anya felt a flush bloom in her cheeks. Vermin? But she had one more tack to take before this situation totally erupted, she thought. "Talvas, did you never confront Master Neloth about this? Why go to such great and elaborate lengths to get his attention?"

Talvas stiffened and such was his anger that little showers of magical green sparks fountained out of the soul gem in his staff, casting green light on the side of his face. "Of course I discussed it with him, you fool! But you know what he's like. He doesn't listen to anyone!"

"Talvas, I--" she began, but he shook his head.  
"No, let me finish! He laughed at me, Dragonborn. LAUGHED at me! He said I could never do better than being his apprentice and suggested that if I wasn't happy with that, I could take the next Silt Strider back to Morrowind and be an ebony miner, just like my father!" 

"What?" Anya breathed, shocked. "Why, that was low even for Master Neloth!"

"Exactly so!" Talvas said, looking slightly mollified. 

"He probably just didn't want to lose the best apprentice he'd ever had," Anya said. Talvas was very capable, she knew. She'd never realized just how capable apparently. Perhaps no one had. 

"The man is impossible, a megalomaniac. You have no idea what I've lived with for a decade and a half!"

"Obviously," Anya agreed. "He's very insulting to everyone. . ."

"Yes," Talvas said absently, clearly remembering. "He is."

"Why couldn't you have simply left him and come to Winterhold? Or gone to the Imperial City? Surely you could've done great things without Master Neloth's family name behind you?"

He shook his head and then glared at her. "But that is beside the point. I'm sorry, but you must die, Anya."

"Why, Talvas?" Anya asked, trying to appeal to him. "Surely we could go to Neloth together and talk to him, show him how he has wronged you?"

"Alas, no," Talvas murmured, looking disappointed for a moment. "The only way to make Neloth understand is to kill the most famous non-Dunmer member of his family: you. That's the only thing that will get through to him." He raised his staff to blast her with some spell, but she had thrown up a Greater award charm in the time it took him to say the last word of his sentence. 

Whatever spell he had invoked bounced harmlessly off the ward, but the incredible force of it pushed her back a step. His face darkened again when he saw that she had avoided it. "I don't want to fight you, Talvas!" Anya shouted as he lobbed another spell at her with his left hand. 

"And yet you must!" He yelled back, throwing spell after spell at her, weakening her ward, even as she prepared to hit him with her Paralyze spell. She shot it at him in a ball of greenish light and he dodged out of the way with a scream of triumph. She re-cast her ward spell and backed towards one of the arches to try to find shelter and regroup. 

"Oh no you don't!" He called, casting a volley of spells at her. They cascaded around the ward again, heating the air and humming with their strength. Each one softened the ward a little more, but just then, she backed into the archway she'd been moving towards, and darted behind it just as her ward spell imploded with a small whoosh of air. 

Talvas screamed inarticulately in frustration and she leaned against the arch for a moment, panting with exertion. A quick succession of bangs that sounded all too familiar and suddenly, Anya could hear the low, stentorian growl of a Seeker, one of the evil, many-tentacled servants of Herma Mora nearby. No, she amended after a moment: not just one, many of them. 

She risked a glance around the arch and was rewarded (or tortured, she thought) by the sight of at least six of the ten foot tall, lumpish monstrosities that could cast painful and deadly energy sapping spells by the second. Talvas pointed in her direction and they all turned as one to orient themselves on her. "By the Divines!" She breathed and abandoned the ward to pull her ebony bow out and nock a Daedric arrow. She always preferred the bow to spells despite her proficiency with magic. Especially when facing magical creatures. 

The Seekers floated towards her, grumbling foully and raising their wasted little arms out of the masses of tentacles that their bodies seemed to be comprised of in preparation for killing her. Talvas stood watching them, his face smug, his arms folded across his chest. 

That was when she saw her opportunity: he wasn't watching her. She took out two of the Seekers in quick succession with her bow, hating the echoing roar they made as they died, to land as mere husks on the flagstones. 

The other four Seekers were only feet from her now and angling to get a good shot at her with their spells, their arms twitching with loathsome excitement. She aimed at the Seeker furthest to her right and hit it just as one of the other Seekers hit her with a spell that jolted her to the center of her body like a lightning rune--the energy crackled through her, momentarily stiffening her arms and making her cry out with pain. 

The other Seekers seemed to get excited by her pain and gathered closer, casting waves of their undulating spells at her as Talvas looked on, grinning malevolently. He still wasn't really watching her though, which was good, she thought, as another of the Seeker spells grazed her bow arm. She shivered with pain and let an arrow fly, taking down another Seeker. 

The last three Seekers circled around her, hopefully blocking Talvas' view of her entirely. She quickly cast a Detect Life spell with one hand, and nocked a final arrow. She knew just where he was: his form glimmered in red light even through the Seeker's bodies, and she pushed through two of the enormous monsters, ducking to avoid their spells and let her arrow speed toward Talvas, whose eyes widened at the last second, realizing his error immediately. 

The arrow found its home as close to his heart as she could get it and knocked him backward to land in an untidy tangle of limbs and robes. The remaining Seekers immediately disappeared without another sound, as they were only spells cast by Talvas, as she had known would happen. 

She limped over to him, and stood over him. His chest was still rising and falling the slightest bit and his red eyes were blazing, even as the life bled from his body. "Talvas, I'm sorry it had to end this way," she said softly. She really was. The world was losing possibly the greatest mage since Shalidor. All because he was too short-sighted to see that he could've just gone off on his own.

"Tell him," Talvas croaked. "Tell Neloth what he's done."

"I will," she promised him, tears making her vision swim. Talvas had done terrible things, yes, but he had been a friend and a big help to her when she was searching for Miraak. They hadn't corresponded in two sun cycles since she had defeated Miraak, and now she wished they had. Perhaps she could've helped him, helped avert the deaths of two innocent people. 

"I'm sorry, Anya," Talvas whispered, the light fading from his eyes, his breathing growing increasingly labored. He took in one last rattling breath, and then let it slowly ease out, his eyes fluttering closed at last. 

"I know, my friend," Anya said, dashing tears away with the backs of her hands. "I know you are." It was a terrible loss, all of them were. All people who had made an impact on Skyrim and Tamriel in some positive way. All had left behind people who loved them. 

She looked at Talvas' lifeless, broken body and wished she could have saved him, as she had saved so many others. Wished she could have realized how bitter and angry he was probably even during the months he has spent as her follower, helping her to kill Dwemer automatons and Seekers, Chaurus and exploring ruins and ancient cities with her. 

She remembered the time she slipped while reaching for a bow hidden in the fork of an ancient tree and fallen face-first into a foul swamp. How they had laughed! She smiled, recalling conversations they'd had sitting around the fire at night, with the peaceful sounds of Netch families grumbling and calling to each other over the water in the distance. She had enjoyed those days and enjoyed Talvas' company. 

It wasn't fair. . . This should never have happened. 

She sank down onto her knees in front of Talvas, crying. At last, exhausted and in pain, she fell asleep where she lay. 

__________

She didn't know how much later she woke up, but when she opened her eyes, the obscenely tentacled form of old Herma Mora, the Daedric Prince himself, floated gently above her, tentacles undulating and waving, huge eyes blinking and staring at her. "Dragonborn," he said in his booming voice. "It is good to see you in Apocrypha again, my champion."

"Herma Mora, would you do me the boon of sending me back to Skyrim?" She asked. "I'm sure my friends are very worried about me as I left them in quite a hurry."

A strange, deep chuckling emanated from the center of the tentacle cloud and Herma Mora said, "But of course, my champion! I trust you have learned much from your latest visit to Apocrypha?"

Anya bowed to him, as was customary when dealing with the Daedric Princes. "Oh, yes, Great One. As always, I learned many things by visiting your realm." Herma Mora wouldn't understand that all knowledge wasn't good knowledge, she knew. So she didn't bother to try explaining that what she had learned had left her deeply saddened. She wasn't even certain that the Daedric Princes understood mortal emotions at all, frankly. 

"Good, good! Knowledge is the most important thing of all, Anya Dragonborn. And now to send you back home, my champion! Goodbye!"

Before she could manage to say goodbye, the realm of Apocrypha with its spinning columns and clouds of books and scrolls had faded away leaving her in blackness. She felt a rushing sense of movement but could see nothing, and all at once, she fell and landed on her back, hard, knocking the wind out of her and hitting her head, painfully. She opened her eyes and found herself back in front of the standing stone. 

"Anya?" Brynjolf's voice called, and then, more excitedly, "Anya!" There was the sound of rushing feet coming towards her and all at once, she was surrounded by her band of friends, Veezara, Bryn, Babette and Dro'Maresh, all staring down at her with expressions of relief and wonder on their faces. 

Her temples throbbed and she felt sure that every square inch of her body was aching in some way or another, but she was grateful to see her friends. "It is done, my friends," she said, and then has to hold up her hands against the clamor of voices all wanting to know what had happened. 

"So the little fetcher was a legendary mage, eh?" Brynjolf shook his head, amazed. 

"Yes, he was indeed," Anya agreed. "I would venture a guess that another mage of his caliber hasn't been seen since Miraak or even Shalidor's time. Even though Master Neloth is a true master of the magicks. Somehow, Talvas was a natural Mage and it must've galled him to have Neloth constantly looking down on him." She stretched her arms over her head and then winced at the pain. 

"Here, Anya, take some more of this healing potion," Babette pushed another bottle of the bubbly red liquid at her. 

"Thank you, Babette," Anya said, swigging from the bottle and feeling the pains recede from her body all at once. Then she looked at everyone in turn. "I wish that Talvas had just come to me and asked for my help interceding with Master Neloth. The whole thing is a terrible waste of life."

Dro'Marash nodded thoughtfully. "Yesss, terrible indeed. . . But will you journey to Solstheim now to tell this Neloth and find Talvas' people to let them know of his fate?"

Anya hadn't thought of it yet, but nodded. "Yes. I think I must."

"But that son of a Daedra tried to kill you, Anya!" Brynjolf said, his brow thunderous. 

"I know, I know, Bryn," Anya said. "He was certainly misguided, and he did horrible things to be sure. But he was a very important part of my growth and development as a mage while I was on Solstheim. He was. . . A friend for a time. I don't like what he did, but I feel that I owe it to him."

"I can't say I agree with it, but then you've always been far nobler than I am, Lass."

"I will accompany you, Anya," Veezara offered. 

"And I," Babette said in her childlike voice. 

Anya was absurdly touched. Tears prickled at her eyes and she dashed them away. "Thank you, friends. You've all been very good to me."

"Now that we've got Anya back, we'd all better get a good night's rest and then get on our way, bright and early tomorrow!" Brynjolf told them, clapping his hands together. 

_________

Veezara caught a couple of rabbits and stewed them up with local vegetables and wild onions. It was just what Anya needed and filled her with more energy and a sense of warmth she hasn't felt in days. 

She knew that tomorrow would bring the beginning of a new journey for her, Veezara and Babette, as they traveled to Solstheim, but at least she was reasonably sure she knew just what was going to happen and there would be no more murders. 

She went to bed that night, curled up under her furs to the sound of night birds and crickets, thankful to be back in the company of good friends and on firm, Skyrim soil.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my little murder mystery! I hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to continue adding chapters to this. It was an idea that came to me as I was playing through the Thieves Guild quest for the SIXTH TIME a couple of weeks ago, and I realized that I was sad to kill Mercer Frey. I wondered what would happen if the Dovahkiin and Mercer were in love and yet she still had to kill him. I hope you like it and I'd love to hear where YOU think this should go!


End file.
